


missing pieces

by peripheralstars



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: 8 Ways to Say 'I Love You' by R. McKinley, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 01:08:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peripheralstars/pseuds/peripheralstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based off <i>8 Ways to Say 'I Love You'</i> by R. McKinley; a series of cecilos drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	missing pieces

1\. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night's clothes. Wake up cringing for days. Wait for her to mention it.

 

            You're cold, Aquarius. You're tired and cold.

            Usually you'd expect alcohol to warm you up but in you just feel colder than ever. You're wrapped up in one, two, three layers - one of the blankets on your shoulder used to belong to your boyfriend before you stole it.

            You miss stealing his things. It's harder to do that now that he's gone.

            It's been months since Carlos went through the door of the house that does not exist, and it's been... you're not sure. Weeks? since Carlos left the fateful voicemail declaring that he was stuck in the alternate desert dimension. You phone every night. He only sometimes picks up.

            You're starting to feel like you did before the two of you got together again.

            Shots are downed, one after another, as if you could literally drown your sorrows in the amount of alcohol you plan on consuming. You don't stop. It burns your throat. You down another shot.

            A few bottles of whiskey gather in a pile at the foot of your bed. You haven't had more than one bottle tonight, of course - you have to work tomorrow - it's just that you've just been too lazy to clean the place without Carlos around. There's no one to impress, after all. When Carlos comes back, he'll just clean it up for you. He's always been such a stickler for clean working environments.

            When he comes back? No.  _If_  he comes back. If.

            If he gets his head out of his (admittedly perfect) arse and stops ogling science long enough to return to his boyfriend.

            If.

            The shot glass has been mysteriously refilled while you were thinking. Thanks, Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home! You down it, but as it runs down your throat, you feel colder than before.

            Through your tears, you see the Void hanging above. You wonder if Carlos sees the Void overhead as you do, in his strange desert otherworld. You hope you do. At least you can still do some things together.

            Even if said things seem not to include having a proper phone conversation that does not involve Doug or science or, amazingly, finding an oak door to return through.

            You try to pour another shot but your hand is shaking too much. You decide to instead clutch Carlos' abandoned blanket to your chest and cry a bit more. Maybe the two of you can be abandoned things together. Maybe it'll be less lonely that way.

            The stars sparkle at you mockingly, as if they know that you cannot touch them and are therefore teasing you.  _It is difficult to say when he will return_ , they twinkle.  _Perhaps take up drinking while crying in a quiet room_.

            You wish you had never taken astrology.

            Cold, shaking, you call Carlos on your cell, begging that he picks up, but also praying that he doesn't.

            "Hi, you've reached Carlos the Scientist; please leave your message at the beep."

            Your mouth is dry. You try once again to pour a shot of whiskey, but quickly find out that it is impossible - but you can, however, grab the entire bottle and pour its contents into your mouth.

            It is not as dry anymore, but you do feel more cold.

            "Beep."

            "Caaaaarlos," you start. Your baritone is cracked and you feel like you need more whiskey. You take another swig of the bottle. "Carlos. Perfect Carlos."

            "I miss you," you murmur into the phone, breathing against the receiver as if it were Carlos and he could feel how cold you are without him through the phone. "I love you."

            "Come home."

* * *

2\. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don't even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.

 

            It's morning.

            You wake up, the two of you in the same bed, his perfect head tucked into the side of your neck, your arms clutching him tightly, your legs tangled together like they never want to be apart. His breaths tickle you, but gently, and despite being in the already-sweltering desert, his added body warmth is comforting, not uncomfortable.

            Nights spent with Carlos always result in wonderful, perfect mornings like this.

            You love mornings.

            You think you could spend eternities looking at him just like this – his hair mussed, his eyes shut, his limbs tangled with yours, in your sheets, in your bed, in your house. You think that you could fall in love with him a million times each day, as long as he stays by your side forever, and you think that you could stay in love with him forever.

            You think that you could tell him of your love - face-to-face for once, instead of through the safe, blind community radio broadcast. You think that you will tell him today.

            He wakes up, eyelids fluttering, shifting out of your embrace. You want to pull him back into your arms, but you don't.

            "Hi," you say, smiling. You kiss his nose.

            "Hi," he replies. "Good morning."

            "It's always a good morning with you here," you tell him. You kiss him - on the lips this time - and he most enthusiastically responds.

            You make out for a while more, teeth and tongues clashing in the best way, your body on top of his, your hands running through his perfect hair. He's so beautiful, and you can scarcely believe that  _you_  get to touch  _this_  - Carlos is  _perfect_ , and you want to stay with him forever, you want to love him forever, you want to -

            You want to do many things. One of them includes telling Carlos that you love him, face-to-face, man-to-man, looking into his eyes so that he can see the honesty in yours. You want to tell Carlos that you love him, but you also want to whisper into his ears  _this is how you make me feel_  and  _you make me feel like I'm beautiful and not an abomination_ and  _I wish I could literally drown in you so that you could consume me, body and soul_ and  _you make me feel like I'm going to die because you can take me apart with just a look and I don't know what I could possibly do to be as perfect as you but I'm going to try, Carlos, I love you I love you I love you I love you -_

Someone's phone rings.

            You want to tell Carlos to ignore it, to stay in bed with you, but he rolls out of bed and digs in his abandoned jeans to find his handphone before the words can leave your lips.  _Beep beep beep_ , the phone screeches.  _You're too late, you missed your chance, better luck next time, Carlos is going now -_

            It was an alarm. In case Carlos didn't wake up in time for work, of course.

            Couldn't time have cooperated with you for once? It doesn't work properly, anyway, so there's no  _point_  in having time around anyway - the City Council should just outlaw it already -

            "Crap, I'm going to be late," Carlos says, already putting on his shirt and smart-casual Wednesday lab coat. "I'll make it up to you next time, I promise."

            He kisses you, one last time on the lips, and you want to whisper the words into his mouth before he leaves for the day -  _I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you_  -

            But the kiss is too short, and by the time you open your eyes, he is already long gone.

            You are left alone in the bed, which is less warm and less comfortable without Carlos in it with you.

            You hate mornings.

* * *

3\. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that's what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you've always known.

 

            You feel ridiculous.

            Stupid, you'd perhaps elaborate. Foolish. Idiotic. Over-the-top and yet still not hitting expectations. You feel the way you felt the first time you failed a test, and for God's sake, the date hasn't even  _started_  yet.

            But there you are, in a semi-casual weekend lab coat (what in the name of all that is holy even is a  _casual weekend lab coat_ ,  _oh my God, why couldn't you have asked someone with a fashion sense to help you out?_ ), grasping flowers tightly in your hand, and the most enormous soft toy of... well.

            Well, you're not exactly sure  _what_  that is, but it looks a bit like Khoshekh, so you think Cecil will like it. You hope.

            You feel  _idiotic_. And like you're trying too hard - which, granted, you actually are, but this is you  _obviously_  trying too hard. Cecil will probably laugh. Cecil will probably laugh and tomorrow, when you turn on the radio, you'll hear Cecil's velvet tones describing what a disaster this date is inevitably going to be.

            Oh God, you think you're going to throw up.

            Is it too hot out here, or is it just you?

            And then Cecil waltzes out of the radio station - not literally, that would be a little weird, even for Cecil - and sees you, waiting there for him, ginormous unknown creature soft toy and all. He smiles, a little sappy, and you think you're going to melt if Cecil continues looking at you that way.

            Because Cecil's always looked at you as if you hung the very moon that Night Vale so loves, and every time you look at him you feel both guilty - because you'll never be as perfect as he thinks you are - and insanely lucky - because you're never going to find anyone else who is willing to gaze at you like that. You think you'll never grow sick of Cecil, ever, even when you're old... if you even get to grow old. Night Vale's dangerous like that.

            You can only hope that you look at Cecil the same way. But you don't think you do - because if you did, Cecil would know, and would have long since declared it for all and sundry to hear. He's quirky like that, but you find that you don't mind it too much.

            It's kind of endearing.

            You walk up to him, and peck him lightly on the lips before thrusting the flowers and oversized soft toy at him. Better to get rid of them first, you think. They're - particularly the soft toy - troublesome to hold, anyway, although you're not entirely sure where Cecil's going to stash it for the length of your date. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea for you to give Cecil such a ridiculous gift. It's only ridiculously inconvenient, after all, and rather pointless - what's he going to do with a soft toy, anyway? Stupid, stupid,  _stupid_.

            But he smiles, softly, sweetly, and kisses you the same way. You try not to melt in his arms.

            "It's  _adorable_ , Carlos. Thank you."

            He's adorable. (The soft toy is not - you think it looks relatively terrifying, but in a way that Night Vale would coo over instead of cower in fear at.)

            The two of you walk down the winding streets to Gino's - mostly because you don't believe that  _Shame_  is a good name for any place, much less an eating establishment - hand in hand, and you think  _this - this is when I'm going to tell him. I'm going to just... open my mouth. And say it. He's said it so many times, I can just say it. I'm not backing out._

            You don't say it.

            The two of you eat in silence at the diner, you picking at your invisible carrot cake (you don't really know whether you're actually eating it, or just eating air), Cecil not eating, but smiling at you. You wonder if he knows what you had planned, and have now scrapped.

            You want to tell him how completely, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love you are with him.

            But you don't. Because when you look at him, the words get stuck in your throat, choking you (maybe that's why you can't breathe whenever you're around him) and your mouth dries and you find yourself gulping down unnecessary amounts of water during dinner. You hope you're not swallowing too loudly.

            "Hey, Cecil?" you start.  _I've been in love with you ever since I heard you cry over my death - no, before that; I've been in love with you ever since you told me that you thought I was perfect and showed me the side of Night Vale that is wonderful and terrifying but in a different way, even for Night Vale, and I've been in love with you for so long I think I can't even get these words off my chest because they've been there for so long but I just want you to know -_

"Yeah?"

            "Nothing. Are you done? I'll walk you home."

* * *

4\. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you've counted the space between her breaths and are certain she's asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering.

 

            You're half-awake, lying in Carlos' bed, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.

            It's not that you don't want to have sex with Carlos, because you do, but sometimes it's just nice to rest in his embrace and bask in the afterglow. Just because he looks perfect doesn't mean you have to get into his pants every time you see him, after all. And his arms are a fantastic place to rest, sometimes - they're strong, sturdy, like how you imagine Carlos has to be, as a scientist (what a dangerous job!  _Scientists_. You're still not entirely sure what you did to deserve a  _scientist_  as your boyfriend). His chest is remarkably well-formed and his heartbeat is soothing in a way that you don't think you've felt... well, ever.

            The pulses from Hidden Gorge might compare, maybe, on a good day. But Carlos' heartbeat is better, because it always feels like  _home_  and  _right_  and  _blood_  and  _alive_ and you don't know what you would do if it ever stopped, because it's basically the soundtrack of your life nowadays. There's just something particularly perfect about that particular rhythm in that quaint little lub-dub, lub-dub human hearts so often have. You think it's adorable. Perfectly adorable. Perfect.

            You think Carlos is perfect. Which is why you're lying awake (but pretending to be asleep) in his arms, letting his warmth envelope you. Also because it feels perfect - once again, not a surprise, considering how the producer of that warmth is similarly perfect.

            His callused hands (undoubtedly from doing Dangerous Science, how  _sexy_ ) run through your hair, his nails sometimes dragging against your scalp, and you would purr if you did not think that it'd stop Carlos from continuing his delightful actions. You can feel his intense gaze on you; dark, silent, but soft, gentle, full of affection. Like a fleece blanket. You can only imagine what must be going through his mind.

            It must be science.

            You wonder what kind of science he's thinking about, although you're sure whatever ridiculous pseudo-science your mind could conjure isn’t even be a quarter as complicated or scientific as what Carlos must truly be thinking of. Perhaps Carlos is thinking about how next he can save the town, you muse. Or maybe Carlos is thinking about the science behind that frankly amazing sex the two of you just had.

            You're not sure that anything could possibly explain the intensity of the sex the two of you just had, but if anything ever could, it'd be  _Science_.

            Carlos' quiet little breaths ghost against the skin of your cheek, your neck, your arms, your tentacles - he's still running his fingers through your hair, but now it feels less like a subconscious expression of affection and more like he's worshipping you and your body, oh gods, he's  _worshipping you_ -

            And he's gripping your shoulder with the hand that's not in your hair, and he's - he's gentle as cotton candy, but you think it ridiculous that he thinks you could possibly sleep through  _this_. Who could? Each kiss feels like a mark on your skin, each squeeze like a brand - this worshipping makes you feel like you're the centre of Carlos' universe, for once, not  _science_  - although you're  _very_  into science these days - and you want to open your eyes but you think it'd stop Carlos' beautiful, gentle, perfect actions - so you keep your eyes closed, and -

            Carlos presses a kiss to your forehead, and it feels like he's naked in front of you for the first time again, because he's just  _that soft and gentle and vulnerable_ and you want to  _melt into his arms_  -

            "I'm so in love with you," he murmurs into your hair. "Did you know? I know I haven't told you before, but. It's probably pretty obvious."

            "I'm always thinking of you nowadays," he continues. "Even when I'm thinking about science. You just... worm yourself in, somehow.  _I wonder if this is how Cecil's blood transports itself. I wonder if this is how Cecil's tentacles feel - it's so strange how they don't have nerve endings. I wonder if this is how Cecil's brain processes emotion. I wonder how Cecil's brain processes information about me. I wonder how Cecil would react to this. I wonder how Cecil will like that._ "

            "I think about you  _all the time_."

            "It's starting to scare me, honestly."

            "But then I stop being scared, because I've spent all my energy being  _so completely in love with you_."

            He strokes your cheek before releasing you, rolling away. You want to pull him back and kiss him silly, but -

            You keep your eyes shut, your hands to yourself, your body bereft of Carlos' heat.

            It's not the right time. He'll tell you all of this to your face one day, when he knows you're awake.

            Oh,  _Carlos_.

* * *

5\. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” Resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.

 

            He spins you around, confident and cool, yourself stumbling over his pointy-toed shoes and your own far less glamorous loafers. This dance party was not planned.

            (If it had been planned, you would be in something other than your lab coat right now. You're bad at dressing, but even  _you_  know that it's unacceptable to be wearing a lab coat while dancing.)

            And he looks like a vision in black and purple - actually, no, just purple and very-dark-almost-black purple - as he spins you, letting you fall into his capable arms and step on his feet as he leads you in a complicated waltz around the apartment. The music is slow and romantic just like Cecil, and sometimes he sings along, his deep baritone curling around the syllables and caressing the sounds, and the entire song starts to sound like caramel syrup - smooth, sweet, with hidden layers of flavour, but likely to leave you with a dry throat afterwards. Your mouth is dry.

            God, your mouth is so dry. You don't know what you're doing.

            You can only imagine what a disaster Cecil must think you. Your hair hasn't even been combed, for God's sake - not that Cecil has ever really cared about that, actually, he's always just declared it to be perfect (what even is "perfectly mussed"?) - and your lab coat has a stain of unknown origins on it, but at least you're very sure it's not blood despite its startling red colour. Most the blood in Night Vale isn't red, anyway.

            Cecil's blood is purple. You know this because you took a blood sample, once, and you told him it was for science but you never used it; it really is a very pretty shade of purple, kind of like the pupil of Cecil's third eye, and you haven't really had  _time_  to do science unrelated to the town's imminent destruction, so...

            You've kind of been using it as a lava lamp. So what? It glows in the dark! And it's hands-down the  _coolest_  lava lamp you've  _ever_  seen. All the other scientists are insanely jealous.

            You step on Cecil's foot. Again.

            You are so bad at this. But Cecil doesn't seem to mind; instead of letting go of you and just stopping the impromptu dance session - which any sane person would have done by now, considering it's your... what, tenth time stepping on his nice new shoes? - he just smiles and holds you a little closer to him, so much so that it's more of a prelude to sex than an actual slow dance. He rocks his body sensually against yours, somehow still keeping time, but swaying instead of all the... twirly, fancy dance-y bits that he was doing before. You figure you prefer it this way.

            "Carlos, my Carlos," he murmurs. "Beautiful, perfectly imperfect Carlos."

            You tuck yourself closer to him, probably looking ridiculous - the height difference between the two of you is no laughing matter - and allow him to croon snippets of song lyrics into your ear. The entire thing's honestly more sensual than it should be, and you should study it. Probably. One day, when you're not so distracted.

            But for now, you'll allow yourself to get lost in Cecil's smooth voice, his perfectly-coiffed hair, the gentle curve of his lips and the way his body fits snug against your own. You'll allow yourself to get lost in the music as delivered through Cecil's soothing tones, allowing them to snake around you like his tentacles might and control you like you are a puppet on his string; you'll allow yourself to fall into his body and hope that you don't find any space that you're unable to fill; you'll allow yourself to be held tight against him as he spins the two of you around the room, slowly, gently, ignoring the sentient toaster's whistling and the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home's self-satisfied clapping. You'll allow yourself -

            "I love you," you blurt out, your tongue having seemingly taken a life of its own and gaining free will despite your attempts at controlling your traitorous mouth and keeping it in check.

            You did  _not_  just allow yourself to say that. Abort, abort, abort. Red alert, priority one. Ix-nay on the completely unnecessary onfession-cay. Damnit, you're a scientist, not a romantic fool. A scientist is never a romantic fool. That's probably one of the rules of being a scientist. You're pretty sure.

            Cecil freezes mid-sway.

            You are so fucked.

            "... when we do this," you continue, weakly, pathetically. You're pretty sure that another of the rules of being a scientist is to not be completely and utterly pathetic. You're a failure as a scientist. "I love you when we do this," you repeat. It does not make your previous statement sound any less like a hastily-retracted confession.

            But then Cecil's tugging on your hair and kissing you, your teeth and tongues clashing, body full-flush against yours and - wow,  _that was quick_  - and you figure you might not have screwed up that badly after all.

            Hopefully. You're not sure.

            To ensure the reliability of the experiment, you'll probably have to repeat the experiment a few more times.

* * *

 6. Write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy’s. Debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? In her coat pocket? Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. Let her wonder if you meant it.

 

             _Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Cecil Palmer. I’m off doing some important journalistic work. Or maybe just petting Khoshekh. But either way, leave me a message._

Hey Cecil, this is Carlos.

            I know it's around morning there in Night Vale, although time doesn't exactly exist, and that you don't wake up until at least noon on a good day, so I guess that's why I got your voicemail. Which is, you know, fine. I planned on getting your voicemail when I made this call. Kind of. I'm not 100% sure why -

            I'm also a little bit drunk. Alicia found a stash of strange, green-ish liquid in the pantry of the lighthouse, and when I waved my Danger Meter over it, it shone blue - scientifically, only medium in danger, like most things in the world - so we had a nice time drinking together. I know I'm supposed to be doing  _science_ , and trying to find my way back to Night Vale, but I thought that today would be a nice day for a break, you know? Like those days where you would go to work and I'd sit in the studio, kissing you during messages from sponsors and -

            Yeah, a break. Alicia agreed, so, here we are.

            Oh, Alicia says hi.

            Anyway. Cecil, I am calling for important, and personal, reasons. This voicemail is important. And personal.

            Alicia and I are sitting near the photos at the lighthouse, and we are watching you. Yeah, we're watching you sleep! You're really cute. Alicia says they like your hair, and that your tattoos are nifty. I'm inclined to agree with them.

            And, Cecil, I miss you.

            I'm watching you right now, and you're reaching out for a me that isn't there in your sleep, and I see the empty, unlabelled bottle of some unknown liquor near the bookshelf and...

            I'm worried, Cecil. I know it wasn't the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home who drank it.

            Do you know how beautiful you are, Cecil? I know you tell me that I'm perfect all the time, imperfectly perfect, with hair like whoa and... perfect in face and form, and all... but - I don't think I've ever told you how I love the dramatic slope of your cheekbones, because they make you look so refined and I don't think I've ever told you how much I love the shade of purple of your irises - which I've decided is 3:7:2 ratio of heliotrope, imperial, and mauve (I googled!) - and I miss you, Cecil, I miss you so much -

            Yeah, so, a little bit drunk. I'm sorry, Cecil. I'll get to the point now.

            The point is, the super-important point that I am calling for, is that...

            I've forgotten.

            Oh, wait, no, I remember now.

            Cecil, I love you. So much.

            I love your smile although you don't smile a lot and I love your Serious Business look where your eyebrows furrow and come together and you have that little crinkle at the bridge of your nose that I want to kiss  _all the time_  and I love the way you always talk about our dates on air and -

            I think you smile more, nowadays. Or, well, you used to.

            I don't think it was because of Strex, either.

            Cecil. I love you. It's times like these that I really,  _really_  want to just go home.

            I know I haven't been spending enough time looking for a way home. I know I've been dedicating too much of myself to Science, and I know that you're worried, and that you miss me. Cecil, I know that I've been neglecting you, and I've not been a very good boyfriend lately. Sometimes, I see the way that Doug and Alicia act, and I feel bad, because Doug and Alicia have this one-romantic-act-per-day thing that they have going on right now, and they're  _super cute_ , and...

            I just wish I could be doing that one-romantic-act-per-day thing with you, too.

            I miss you.

            I love you.

            I'll try to come back soon. I can't make any promises - I haven't seen a single one of the oak doors so far, although I haven't exactly been looking for them - but I  _am_  looking, Cecil. I  _am_  searching for a way back, even though there are  _so many_  scientifically interesting things here.

            You're more important to me than science ever could be, Cecil. I hope you know that. And this desert might be scientifically interesting, but Night Vale - but anywhere with you - is home.

            I love you.

             _You have successfully recorded your message. To send, press  #. To de-_

_Message deleted. Re-record?_

_-_

* * *

 7. Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing Wabash against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking.

 

            Your hands are shaking.

            Your hands are shaking, and  _Cecil is dying_. Your hands are shaking just like the ground under your feet and you can barely hold on to your phone, you can't put it up to your ear, your hands are shaking and  _Cecil is dying and all you can do is watch._

You think that you're going to throw up.

            While the ground rumbles and rolls, rocks falling and sand shifting, the walls of the lighthouse remain surprisingly still. You're not still, and only partly because of the ground.

            Cecil is  _dying_.

            You can see him, though the pictures on the wall. You can hear his screaming through the receiver of your phone, even though it's held away from your ear and you can hear how distorted Cecil's usual baritone has become, instead twisting into some unholy shrieking that you've never heard come from  _anyone's_  mouth, much less Cecil's.

            Cecil has the best voice of all, but not right now.

            For once, his voice isn't smooth or strong; for once, his breaths aren't even and the syllables leaving his lips don't dance on the tip of his tongue before he lets them slide out along with honeyed words and caramel tones. This time, right now, they're high-pitched and stretched, like elastic being pulled too far apart too fast, almost snapping but not really, tearing apart into individual, stringy strands. His precious throat sounds dry from all the screaming and there's a distinct element of asphalt in his voice, the grinding hoarseness making your heart hurt as if the asphalt were scratching against your own skin.

            You've started to cry.

            Your hands are shaking, and you've started to cry, and Cecil - beautiful, darling Cecil - is still screaming, and you're pretty sure he's dying, and  _God_  -

            You pound against the walls of the lighthouse, desperate, howling, ineffectually; the walls shake (but they are already shaking, it is  _always_  shaking in the desert nowadays) and you cannot get to Cecil no matter how hard you slam your fists against the wall. You see Cecil in the picture, lying spread-eagled on the ground, a man who looks exactly like you leaning over him, knife running through his flesh and you want to yell at him to stop, to pull him off the love of your life and stab him through the liver with his own blade. You want to kill him, and protect Cecil from his cruel hands; you want him to  _stop_  -

            But you can't.

            You're still stuck in this desert otherworld, a dimension away from Cecil and Night Vale and all its goings-on. You are still stuck in this lighthouse, away from Cecil, unable to help him, unable to do  _anything_  except hear his shattered screams through handphone and watch him be torn apart by some freak who looks exactly like you.

            You can't do anything.

            And Cecil? Cecil is dying.

            From the speaker of the phone, you think you can hear him begging your double to stop -  _please, please, please, please please please please pleasepleasepleasepl_ Your double does not stop. He continues running the blade through Cecil's papery skin, and he's laughing - you can hear that, too - and you pray to God that you never meet that man because you will not be able to honour the sixth commandment if you ever see that disgusting grin of his where you could tear it apart -

            Cecil is dying and you're dying inside.

            From the pictures you can see him stop struggling against your double. You didn't even know you  _had_  a double,  _God_ , but apparently you do and apparently he hates Cecil about as much as you love him. You're screaming, screaming,  _screaming_ for the Sheriff's Secret Police or the Faceless Old Woman or anyone,  _anyone_  in Night Vale to hear your shrieks through the phone and come to Cecil's rescue but you know, logically, that no one will hear your shouts if they can't hear Cecil's screaming.

            You can hear Cecil's screaming, though.

            Where are the Sheriff's Secret Police?

            Cecil is  _dying_.

            Cecil is dead.

            You watch his last scream die on the tip of his tongue, the half-formed sound of  _your name_  falling off the cliff and you cannot do anything to help him. You watch the last word slip from between Cecil's teeth, not caramel or oaky as they should be, as Cecil's voice should  _always_  be, but shredded to tiny pieces and hanging, dangling in the air. You watch Cecil die, your phone providing rudimentary audio of the event, and you cannot do anything. You cannot do  _anything_.

            But you complete his last scream for him, although no one can hear you in this desert otherworld. And then you cry, huddled against the wall of the lighthouse, eyes tightly shut, because you never want to see that scene, with Cecil''s body lying lifelessly on the ground as your own body continues to slice it into bits, again.

            You -

            Cecil is dead.

            Cecil is dead.

            Cecil

            Is dead.

            You are still clutching the phone in your hand.

             _I love you_ , you murmur through the phone receiver, as if Cecil could still hear you despite no longer being alive.  _I love you more than the sun and the stars and I love you more than science and if Night Vale is the most scientifically interesting place in America, then you are the most completely fascinating creature, scientifically or otherwise, be it in America or the entire universe._   _I love you, Cecil, I love you._

And then you tell him,  _I'm sorry_ , although he cannot hear you.  _I'm sorry._

The rumbling has stopped, but you are still shaking.

             _I'm sorry_.

* * *

8\. Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like “I think” or “I might.” Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “I love you too.”

 

            You fall in love with him on a Thursday, where you come home greeting with the sight of him snuggled into your sheets, tentacles writhing as if they're trying to grab hold of something, hair a complete mess, lips slightly parted, a leg thrown over to your side. You are holding a cup of coffee in your hand, and you want to abandon it in favour of shedding your clothing and crawling into bed with the most perfect man you've ever seen.

            Or, well, no. You fall in love on a Thursday, where you kiss him so hard and so long that you think you see the stars instead of the lights over the Arby's and you realise that you'd rather keep kissing him forever instead of breathing, because, hey, breathing is overrated anyway, but kissing him certainly isn't. Or maybe that's not quite it, either.

            You fall in love with him on a Thursday, listening to his dulcet tones on the radio, drowning in his voice and allowing them to wash over you, and you find that instead of science you just want to be by his side, together with him, doing something with him -  _anything_  with him, even something you're so completely terrible at as community radio - just so that you can spend more time with him. He's weird and exuberant and unnecessarily dramatic, but maybe not, considering it's Night Vale, but you can think of nothing better than to spend the day, the week, the rest of your life beside his completely illogical, over-the-top, strange, scientifically interesting self. But no.

            You fall in love with him on a Thursday, when you see him at the bus station, your eyes half-open and yourself only a quarter awake. You think that you're hallucinating because that is literally the man of your dreams; the man you've been dreaming about on the entire bus ride to Night Vale, and you want to introduce yourself but you quickly realise that your hair is greasy and your skin is sallow and oily, that this is  _not_  the first impression you want to make on the man of your dreams, and -

            You are in love with him.

            You want to tell him, but you don't know how to open your mouth - you contemplate just throwing a whole lot of scientific jargon at his face and letting him figure it out himself (which he likely never will, considering people can't even Google things in Night Vale) but even  _you_  aren't such a failure. You want to tell him that you want to spend the rest of your life listening to his voice (and not just on NVCR) and that you want to spend the rest of your life holding his hand, his ring on your finger and your ring on his.

            You want to tell him that you are so completely in love with him that you do not think you could not bear ever being separated from him. You want to tell him of all the things you wish that the two of you could do together - you want to bring him to meet your family, staunchly and devoutly Christian though they might be, and you want to let him meet all your friends who didn't go to Night Vale with you, and you want to bring him to see the mountains, and the sea, and the stars -

            You want to tell him how completely in love with him you are.

            Now, if only you could open your mouth.

\---

            You fall in love with him on a Thursday, when you see him on the bus coming into Night Vale, his eyes half-open but the deepest shade of chocolate brown you've ever seen. You fall in love with his easy, sleepy grin, his sleep-addled stride, his teeth like a military cemetery, and his perfect hair - you never knew that anyone could pull off a lab coat until you saw him that fateful day. You fall in love with everything about him that you possibly could in a 5-second interaction wherein you spend most your time staring and he spends most his time shuffling, no words being exchanged, but you  _know_  he's looking at you. You wonder if he finds you attractive. You wonder if he knows that you find him  _perfect_. But no.

            You fall in love with him on a Thursday, his eyes glinting as he tries to save Night Vale from the horror of the week and you are not exactly saved by him, but you are one of the citizens of the beautiful town that he has helped saved. And while he's not exactly your knight in shining armour, he  _is_  a beautiful, brave, perfect man with perfect hair (albeit not as perfect as it could be, now that Telly's shorn most of it off) and you want to let him into your life and keep him there forever, because you could not think of anyone more amazing than him, the perfect scientist with the brave heart and the inquisitive mind. The man with pride but not so much that he doesn't ask for help; the man with the best heart and most beautiful eyes you've ever seen. Yet that's not entirely correct.

            You fall in love with him on a Thursday, where he kisses you so hard you think he's going to stop breathing, and he kisses you so long that you think he's not going to stop: you fall in love with the perfect pressure of his chapped lips and the way his hand cups the back of your head as you kiss under the lights over the Arby's and you think he's not going to stop kissing you,  _ever_ , and you don't mind that  _at all_ , because dying mid-kiss with the most perfect man around is quite possibly the best death you've ever imagined for yourself.

            No. You fall in love with him on a Thursday, with you curled up in his bed and your tentacles writhing about in search of his warmth, when he comes home, wearing a stained lab coat and safety goggles that he's obviously forgotten to take out. He smiles at you, and he has a little bit of coffee foam on his lips, and you wish that you could lick it off and pull him straight into bed -

            You are in love with him.

            You want to tell him, seriously, for real, and let him know that you're not joking (although your confessions never were jokes, even the first time when you declared your affections for the entire town to hear) - let him know you're  _serious_  - and you want to tell him face-to-face, looking into his eyes, straightforwardly, wholeheartedly, and wait hopefully for his reply. You want to tell him how you fell for him the moment you looked at him because your third eye sees parts of a human that you can't even  _begin_  to explain but you instantly knew that he was  _perfect_  in face and form and soul; perfect not in a conventional way but  _perfect for you_.

            You want to tell him that you are so completely his already, although he doesn't know it; you want to tell him that you will never find another as perfect for you as him, just like how he will never find another as perfect for him as you, because the two of you were wound together at the making of the world, your souls entwined and bound together with the threads of fate and you will never be torn apart, you will never be able to be torn apart, no matter how far apart the two of you are from one another. You want to tell him that nothing will ever be able to stand in the way of fate. You want to show him so much, that he might or might not understand, but you want to show him  _everything_  about yourself, your  _true_  self, and -

            You want to tell him how completely in love with him you are.

            But for the first time that you can remember, the words are stuck in your throat and no amount of coughing will get them out.

\---

            In the end, neither of you open your mouths. It's not necessary.

            Your fates are written in the stars, in the lights above the Arby's, in the threads of the universe and everything. And as the two of you remain together, hands grasping each other's tightly, a being that was once two but is now one, the both of you  _know_.

            Because you know that he would die without you, and he knows that you wouldn't survive much longer, and you both know that you are perfect for each other, and sometimes, that's all that matters.

            Not words, but the way you fit together like a missing piece that you never knew was gone until it was found.

            The stars twinkle in the distance.  _You're happy, Aquarius/Taurus_ , they say, cheerful, sparkling.  _You're happy._

**Author's Note:**

> come hang with me on my [tumblr](http://peripheral-stars.tumblr.com)!


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